


Hit by a Truck.

by quadrotriticale



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Not Canon Compliant, POV Second Person, POV Steve Rogers, ship is implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-05 23:59:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15182246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quadrotriticale/pseuds/quadrotriticale
Summary: Steve is injured on a mission.





	Hit by a Truck.

**Author's Note:**

> some more! short! self indulgent! drivel!  
> all ya need 2 know is bucky never goes back under in wakanda in the au i have created in my brain.

You’ve got… fuck, some kind of knife sticking out of your side. Hurts to breathe, hurts to move, you keep your hand there because there’s really nowhere else to put your arm, and you’d rather keep the knife in than take it out. Bleeding, you know, don’t want more of that. You’re seated on a fallen log, far enough into a forest that you’d be invisible from above the trees, but you can still see the flames from the base through the trunks, orange glow blanketing the area. Sam is pacing, limping a little, his wing pack half busted and leaned against a tree, and Bucky watches him from beside you with what you guess is growing irritation. Sam is more worried than he should be, you think, it’s going to take a lot more than a knife to kill you, and Natasha never misses a rendezvous when she isn’t out there with you. Tired, you lean against Bucky and wait for news. Nat was informed of your injury and Sam’s damaged equipment, so you’re expecting a more direct approach than usual when she comes to get you. You drift in and out for a while, catching snippets of your friends bickering over something you don’t quite absorb the meaning of. You wonder, vaguely, if there was something on that knife, but you’re a bit too out of it to evaluate that further.

You don’t register when or how you get into the quinjet, you don’t really get what’s going on until you’re mid flight and you wake up shivering on the bench in the back to Sam asleep on the floor beside you, leaning back on the bench, and Nat sitting on the opposite bench. Bucky’s up in the cockpit, which you can see by craning your neck a little. Your head aches and your vision swims, and now that you think about it, everything is sore. There must have really been something on that knife. 

“You really have to stop getting yourself stabbed,” you hear Nat say, a note of amusement in her voice though she mostly just sounds relieved. 

You huff a laugh, don’t bother turning your head to look at her. You feel like… you feel like you just got your ass kicked, sort of like you’re concussed again and you’re going to be dizzy for headachey for a while, and you’re going to have a ton of ugly bruises and some cuts that’ll need stitches, feel sort of like you’re small and vulnerable and angry again. You don’t think that’s a bad thing. It’d be nice to be you again, even if that means having to give up… all of this. 'All of this' isn't really that great. “S’not like I’m trying,” you reply, voice a little more slurred than you mean it to be. 

She doesn’t reply, but you think if you’d have been looking at her, she would have smiled. You hear her get up and walk in the direction of the cockpit, hear bits and pieces of a conversation she has with Bucky before you hear him come into the back, his footsteps heavier than you'd like, though the rhythm is familiar. Sam doesn’t stir, and you’ve got half a mind to shake his shoulder and get him to go sleep where Nat was sitting, he's gonna wake up with an awful kink in his neck. Bucky gives you a smile when you look at him, which softens when you smile back. He takes Nat’s seat about as quietly as he can manage. He looks tired, and you wonder if he was worried. 

“Welcome back,” he says, and you laugh a little, which he seems to take as meaning you’re alright since he lets go of some of the tension he was holding. 

“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” you tell him, and he laughs at you, an easy, soft sort of sound. 

“Oh, I bet. You gotta be more careful, ya know. Maybe they can’t kill you but they can screw you up pretty bad. Hate to have you pass out in the middle of a fight.”

“I’ll have to try that,” you tell him, and you think you both know you won’t, because you can’t, and you don’t want to. Reckless might not be your middle name, but it probably should be. 

The rest of the trip back to the bunker passes in relative peace. Nat and Bucky take turns flying the jet, Sam sleeps pretty much until you’re entering the hanger (he fusses over you a bit when he wakes up, tells you you’ve got to stop freaking him out like that, asks you if you’re okay, and concedes when you tell him that you’ve definitely felt worse.) When the jet lands, he sort of hovers around you, fusses until Bucky’s got you on your feet and you wave him off. You see him dump his gear and head towards living quarters. Nat hangs back too, briefly, before bidding you goodnight and heading in the opposite direction, saying something about debriefing in the morning when you’re feeling better, and how she’s still got something she needs to do. You and Bucky bid her goodnight, and he half carries you back to your room. You think you’d fall if you attempted that on your own, God, everything’s spinning.

He dumps you on the bottom bunk when you get in. You slump backwards, huff a breath and pause for a moment before wiggling out of your tac gear and worming your way back into a more comfortable position. You decide that you really don’t need to get dressed right now, or change out of the smelly, kind of bloody under clothes you have on, but you still get a face full of clean shirt and the insistence that you at least do that. It’s a bit of a maneuver changing your shirt lying down, but you manage, hear Bucky laugh at you from across the room. He goes for a shower, and when he comes back, you whine until he lays down with you, lets you kind of wrap yourself around him. You’re pretty happy to fall asleep like that, even if you’re still sore, and even if might not be the best position for the still-healing stab wound on your side. 

You sleep… well, and you don’t dream tonight. You think he sleeps a little too.


End file.
